


Sun Don’t Set If You Keep Heading West

by Meduseld



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Beginnings, Bruce's issues in general, Explicit Language, Feelings, First Time, Insecurity, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Self Confidence Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 18:25:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11258433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meduseld/pseuds/Meduseld
Summary: It's been a long time since Bruce has done this.





	Sun Don’t Set If You Keep Heading West

_“Sexy” “gorgeous” “asshole” “fucking perfect” “a god” “selfish cockhole” “just right” “pornstar perfect” “not the size but how you use it” “life ruining”_ are only some of the things Bruce has been called during sex.

Or before, or after. It’s not something that he allows to get to him.

They’re just words, and spoken by people that _want_ something. Bruce Wayne’s money, or his attention, or his cock and bragging rights that come from having it. They don’t _matter_.

And they don’t see him, especially as the nights are Batman grow longer and the scars deeper and he barely unzips to get it done, just often enough to keep the rumor mill and paparazzi satisfied. There’s no point getting undressed further, or anyone who really wants him to.

And then Metropolis blows up and Bruce’s whole life goes up in flames around it and something good, for once, comes out of the ashes.

Diana and Arthur and _Clark_ , especially Clark, Clark who forgave him.

Clark, who is pressing his lips with a quiet reverence to Bruce’s.

He should stop him, he shouldn’t let it go any further, he has to be the cooler head here.

“Oh” Clark breathes, soft and wondering against his cheek “you’re so beautiful” like he means it he can’t, can’t deny him anything.  They kiss again and again and he thinks maybe they could just stay here, like this, forever.

And the he opens his eyes and Clark’s eyes are such a deep burning blue, sweet and intense all at once that his body moves on its own. They tumble back onto a bed, it could be any room in Wayne Manor, and Clark is whispering against his skin “You’re-I want- _Bruce_ -” and he can let this happen.

Just once, just tonight, in the quiet dark. Clark reaches over to the light and his hand moves, lightning fast and catches on his wrist. “Don’t.” His skin is soft but underneath he can feel the bone, more solid that steel. Clark’s head tilts.

“I-” Bruce says because he can’t he can’t god help him but- “It’s okay” Clark says in a voice he must have used to soothe horses or whatever animals they’d had on the farm. 

It’s stupid of him, it’s not like it will make a difference. 

Clark will see everything anyway, each scar and crooked joint and he’ll turn away. But right now they’re kissing and Clark lips slip past his jaw to his ear to whisper “Can I?” and his skull shakes with it.

“It’s okay, it’ll be okay” he says sinking down and pressing his face against the bulge in Bruce’s 700 dollar pants “I just want-” he says over Bruce’s shattered breathing and his hand, big, strong, warm settles over Bruce’s fly and he nods, sharp and jerky and Clark’s entire body exhales.

And then his mouth settles on Bruce and time, for a moment, hot and wet, just stops. He runs his hands through Clark’s hair, he doesn’t pull or tug or tighten, just runs his hands over and over impossibly smooth jet black hair and tries to believe he might have earned this. 

It’s like honey in his bones and lightning in his skin, Clark’s soft lips and careful touch.

He should be doing something, using all his not inconsiderable experience to make it good for him, but his body feels his for the first time in a long, long time and he’s lost in it.

He’s blindsided by his orgasm, his spine wracked by it, but Clark isn’t, humming and eager and that’s when he can move again.

His hands are everywhere, on the endless expanses of smooth perfect skin and it’s fitting isn’t it, that Clark really is perfect while Bruce is exactly as ugly as he seems.

It’s easy to have him groan and curl and “ _Oh_ , Bruce”.

He rolls back off the bed and hides in the bathroom for a minute, head between his hands.

This is without question, the most reckless thing he’s ever done, including donning the cowl and letting Robin do the same.

When he gets his breathing  back to an acceptable rate, and if he couldn’t he’d be quitting all of this, because he’s been courting control too long to be this quickly undone, Clark’s still sitting on the bed, looking unsure.

“Would you like me to leave?” he says and he sounds so _young,_ so incredibly breakable that it’s all Bruce can do not to maul him.

He wants to give him everything, he’d reach into his own chest if he could, and he tries to say it in every reverent touch of the smooth skin he knows he’ll never get to taste again.

*

Bruce actually sleeps for six hours.

He can’t remember the last time held managed it without help from drugs or injury, since before Jason probably, but it’s been a night for that sort of thing. The human touches he tells himself he can go without.

He slips out from under Clark’s arm, he’s a heavy sleeper, Bruce knew he would be, and stops.

He should go.

He should be as cruel as possible, let Clark wake here alone like god knows how many celebutantes. Find his own way out, because he wouldn’t sick around to be politely but firmly shown the door by Alfred.

Not that Bruce would be long for this world if he ever got wind of exactly what Bruce had done here. 

He has to walk away before he can make this any worse.

But he can’t make himself go.

He compromises by walking to the window. The day is overcast but it’s still a beautiful view of the gardens. He knows every view from every window of the manor but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t appreciate them all.

It’s home.

“Bruce?” He sounds soft, the Midwest in his voice made heavy by sleep.

“Right here” he says pressing his palm flat to the window, trying to leech some of its chill.

It’s ridiculous how warm hearing that voice makes him.

He can feel Clark smiling at him. “I can see that. I just- he laughs, with that way he has. The one that makes you feel like you’re in on the joke -I just wanted to be sure of you”.

That gets Bruce to turn. “Winnie the Pooh?”

Clark is smiling, sheepish and Renaissance perfect in rumpled sheets. “My dad used to read it to me, growing up”. Bruce nods. 

“Good taste”

Clark’s smile hurts to look at. “Come back to bed?”

Like it’s that simple, like they can just have this, like this is something they could actually do. 

He can’t think of anything to say.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No”

Clark hesitates then moves towards him, careful. Not like Bruce is dangerous, which he is, he is, he almost killed the man in front of him because he was shortsighted and angry and Clark should _know_ that, but like he’s fragile, skittish.

His hand on Bruce’s cheek feels like a benediction.

“I don’t know that I can handle this”

“We’ll figure it out” Clark says and he shakes his head. He still can’t make himself step away.

“I don’t deserve this”

Clark sucks in air like he’s been wounded, and isn’t it proof that he shouldn’t be here, the fact that he knows exactly what that sounds like.

“Bruce. You always have”.

**Author's Note:**

> And then Alfred made pancakes and everyone was happy forever.


End file.
